All Tomorrow's Parties
by ThePaperWhale
Summary: AU- Female Ciel.   She hates it, the way complete strangers stare at her as if they have a right to.  As if... as if they're hungry.   Contains copious amounts of Sebastian/Ciel unresolved sexual tension, but not romance


Ciel hasn't tightlaced since Aunt An passed away. An had been one of the only people she'd allow to touch her, and even then, it was only to dress her up for very formal occasions, and she'd had to simply bear with it, minding her aunt's advice about how to breathe and to only wear the 'wasp waist' for a few hours at a time as to avoid physical damage. For some reason she'd also seen it as appropriate to regale Ciel with stories about women who'd come to her clinic with cracked ribs and worse from simply wearing their undergarments too recklessly. If Ciel had had enough breath in her at the time to mutter something sarcastic, it would have been about plans to branch Funtom into the fashion business and ensure that all medieval torture devices that currently passed for clothing would fall out of favor for a long time.

She has only Maylene to dress her now, and while her maid is surprisingly less clumsy than usual when it comes to buttons and strings at a close range, she also apparently believes that Ciel is made of glass, with the way she laces her up in the mornings.

Sebastian had offered his help once, to which Ciel simply responded with a harsh glare. He still does the rest of her preparations, once the clothes are on; fixing her hair, tying ribbons on her bonnet, smoothing out all the outward details to make her look presentable, but not even Maylene is allowed to see her entirely undressed and that puts Sebastian out of the question, so it's been four years of unfashionably lax corsets.

Ciel doesn't particularly mind, though Aunt Frances minces no words in telling her that she's going to destroy her posture and look a right slob in front of everyone if she continues to wear her bodices as loose as a man's waistcoat. The tailor also mourns Countess Phantomhive's disregard for trends, but Ciel continues to ignore her impassioned speeches and say "An empire waist will do, Miss Hopkins", time after time.

Today is different, though. The event will be a celebration of Ellis Middleford's accomplishments in Her Majesty's fencing tournament, and Aunt Frances will, of course, be there, her critical gaze ever the more intense on Ciel's presentation as Ellis' fiancee and as representative of the Phantomhive family. More importantly, however, she is wearing her mother's dress- one of the few that had been kept in their townhome and thus survived the fire. It has a harsh, unforgivingly tailored waist, and she doesn't dare alter a stitch on it.

"For God's sake, Maylene, you're not even trying," Ciel looks over her shoulder at Maylene, whose face is colored the usual shade of red from intense concentration.

"I- I'm trying, My lady, but- but... any more and you'll get squished, you will!"

"That's the idea." she says, then sighs, looking up at herself in the vanity mirror.

Squeezing all her organs into a nice, ladylike cone shape, yes, that's the idea... Ciel now remembers why she'd rather eat mud than go to a ball under most circumstances, but the look on Ellis' face when he'd told her he won the tournament... she couldn't disappoint him. For all the ways she tries to push him away (It's for his own good, she hopes he'll understand one day when he has some sense), seeing him upset is still just about the worst feeling she can imagine, worse even than cracking a rib from putting on Satan's undergarments.

Actually... even the denizens of Hell probably know better than to wear these ridiculous things. But come to think of it, someone like Sebastian would at least know how they work.

She turns around and bats Maylene's hands away.

"Send for Sebastian, maybe he can get this right."

"But Milady, you're not dressed yet, you're not-"

"I'm dressed enough; just send him in."

Maylene hums through a distressed pout, as if holding objections in her mouth, but curtsies and leaves as she is told.

Ciel sits at the vanity, sighing and untying her eye patch. There is a box full of others like it, in various designs that Miss Hopkins made for her, but she still prefers the simple black one; it doesn't call undue attention. People talk awfully loudly at parties when they gossip about her, thinking she's too young or too socially inept to pay attention to their snide remarks or patronizing affectations of pity while they stare at her eye, or rather, where she lacks one.

'_She was such a pretty little thing too. What a shame_.' or '_How fortunate for her that she was already betrothed or she'd never find a decent husband_.' It seems nobody even in 'high society' knows how to mind their own business.

She studies the contract seal on her iris, wondering how much they'll still be chattering about it, amidst scrutinizing every last thing about her; how she wears her gown, how she holds her fan, how closely she stands to her fiance...

God, she hates parties.

She hates _people_.

There is a soft knock at the door.

"Come in, Sebastian," She says. He does, and she looks at him boredly, though she unconsciously lays a hand over her chest and adjusts the strap of her chemise. It isn't as if she really has anything to hide from Sebastian beyond making a show of it for propriety's sake; the secret they share is far more intense than anything that can by hidden by petticoats and stockings. It won't matter in the end, when their contract is complete, if he has occasionally seen what a gentleman shouldn't see. He's not a real gentleman, after all, and he's seen her wearing less, though the years have passed.

She wonders if he's noticed how her breasts have grown.

That's stupid. He's Sebastian and he notices everything.

What she wonders, in a train of thought that goes against her best efforts, is if he _cares_.

_What the hell is wrong with her?_

"You needed something, My Lady?"

"Lace my corset properly so I can fit in this gown tonight," She says, brushing her hair over one shoulder and looking at him plainly, "You can do that, right?"

"It has been several years, but I do have a bit of experience with these things, yes."

She stands and walks to her bedside, grasping a corner post with both hands.

"I don't have all day," She says gruffly, and he smiles in that subtle sly way he always does. She's glad, for a moment, that she's leaning on the bedpost, because her legs suddenly don't feel particularly up to task.

The way he looks at her- there's a word for it, but she can't think of it.

"Yes, My Lady." He says.

_'Indecent,'_ she thinks, as he sidles up behind her and sets his hands on her waist, _'Indecent is the word. Aunt Frances had the right idea all those years ago when she said that about him... Maybe.'_

Maybe she's just projecting, but-

His hand on the small of her back makes her gasp and he hasn't even begun tightening the laces.

"It should be worn slightly lower, to taper to the natural waistline," he says, adjusting the garment accordingly, "At this level, it will also properly support the bust."

"I don't need you to explain it to me," She says, looking back at him and frowning. He opts for his 'innocent' smile which she's never bought as innocent for even a moment.

"My apologies, Mistress." He tugs at the cords up around her shoulder blades, quickly working his way downward in small increments. The branding scar chafes under the friction of fabric.

"Please exhale," he says, and she does, wheezing a bit in the process. This is where it begins to hurt. Aunt An used to tighten her laces up quickly, in sharp fast bursts, so it would all be over sooner. Sebastian takes the alternate approach, pulling at the corset strings slowly and steadily. Neither approach is better, she has decided; they're both pretty awful in their own ways, but it's especially agonizing to have it drawn out like this when in this sort of position, with Sebastian edged up so close behind her. It's... well...

_'Lascivious,'_ she thinks. That's the word for it. She can only imagine the scandal that would erupt if someone were to find her, the Countess of Phantomhive household, in such a compromising position with her own servant. Her reputation would be ruined and Ellis would be heartbroken.

Well, no, sweet innocent Ellis probably wouldn't even understand the innuendo. Though he often tries to kiss her and get all sorts of familiar with her, Ciel doubts even now that he has a full understanding of where babies come from.

"Ugh," she can't help but release a few undignified sounds as her ribs are compressed further, "Se- Sebastian- it hurts-!"

"Please bear with it for a moment longer, Mistress," he says, and pulls hard on the looped laces at her waist.

She grips the bedpost, her arms shaking, her skin beginning to glisten as she pants heavily. It's not from the pain. This has gotten worse and worse, recently, the shameful excitement she gets every time he touches her even in a completely proper way. Where she once recoiled from everything years ago, now she itches for contact, his contact, specifically. It's completely ridiculous.

She's dreamed about having her soul eaten by him, more times than she would care to count. She dreamed of pain at first; of him growing large fangs and tearing her open, ripping her soul right out of her belly. The method of devouring changed gradually from dream to dream; he sometimes punctured her neck and lapped her soul out of the wound like a vampire in a horror story, then later began to feed from her mouth, sucking the soul out like breath from her lungs. She'd begun to wonder if that was how Devils really feasted, though she was sure that in reality it wouldn't involve so much tongue.

It was soon after that musing that she had begun to suspect the dreams weren't about him eating her soul at all. Nominally, that is what they all seem to be, but when she wakes and thinks it through, she becomes certain that her soul most certainly doesn't reside in all the places that dream-Sebastian attempts to suckle it from.

No, definitely not _there_.

From time to time, she wakes up in the middle of the night; replays the dreams in her head as she abuses herself to the thoughts, always with one hand clasped tightly over her mouth in case she should accidentally say his name and call him to her side. It seems pointless, as he can probably hear her anyway, wherever he is.

Of course, he's Sebastian, and he hears everything.

What she wonders is: does he _care_?

No, what she really wonders is: _does he understand_, and more importantly, _would he reciprocate_?

She could order him to indulge her on her fantasies. She's seriously considered it on more than one occasion.

However, she has her pride.

"Sebastian!" she pants his name, like she never lets herself do when she's alone. It hurts. It hurts like she always dreams it will hurt for him to devour her, even when those dreams take a turn for the erotic.

That's the most frustrating part: not even the shame of lust or girlish fantasies or self-pollution; it's that she doesn't even mind when it hurts. In those moments, the prospect of being consumed doesn't even frighten her.

Sebastian's hand settles on her shoulder and he pulls roughly at the looped cords around her waist one more time, effectively squeezing the breath right out of her. Before she can regain it and say something properly snippy, he's already neatly tied up the lace.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" He says.

She collapses on the bed, taking as deep a breath as she can while her head spins.

"You needn't be quite so dramatic about it, Young Mistress, I'm sure a simple corset hasn't rendered you invalid," Sebastian says as he picks up the small wire bustle already laid out, "Come now, as you said earlier, you don't have all day."

"I'm sure that's easy for you to say if you've never worn one." She mutters

Sebastian smiles brightly.

"... have you?" she asks.

"Several times," he says.

Ciel grunts out a very unladylike response and holds up her arms, which Sebastian has no trouble interpreting as his cue to lift her up to her feet. He fastens the bustle around her waist quickly and efficiently, and it all makes sense now that he's had personal experience with these things.

"Have you been a woman?" she asks, somehow still feeling the need to cross her arms over her chest although she is completely covered. Sebastian lifts the gown from its hanger and slides her into it as if he's practiced this a thousand times before.

"When I am contracted, I am whatsoever my Master needs me to be."

There are ridiculous amounts of buttons on the gown. He begins on them, deftly working his way up her back.

_Whatsoever she needs him to be_... he has said that before, and yet she doesn't dare test the limits of how far he may go or change himself to suit her 'needs'.

The way he looks at her sometimes, it seems almost as if he can read her thoughts; as if he knows what she wishes to order him to do, but is too stubborn or prideful or repressed or terrified to do so. He has that look, when he works his way up to the last few buttons at the back of her neck, and his hand rests on her bare skin there. For anyone else it might have been a simple slip of the hand.

He is Sebastian, and he doesn't make small mistakes like that. She looks in the mirror to see him, smirking over her shoulder.

"Such a high neckline on this gown," he says.

"As is only proper when in Her Majesty's presence."

There is that. It is also that she has no interest in revealing more than she must, especially when attending one of these damned parties. Soon after she learned just how inept high-society types are at hiding their gossip, she began to grow, and then learned rather quickly that even so-called gentlemen aren't very good at concealing their wandering eyes.

She hates it, the way they, complete strangers, look at her, as if they have a right to. There's a word for it, the way they regard her, the same way they did when she was twelve, from the moment she began to show even a hint of a bosom. Back then, she couldn't think of the right way to describe it; she had only thought they stared at her as if... as if...

_As if they were hungry._

"I see..." he says, and his hand circles around, loosely grasping at her throat, "A collar for the Queen's watchdog."

Years ago, she would have slapped his hand away and said something scathing. Now she doesn't mind, even when he smiles at her. It isn't quite the same smile that she gets from lecherous strangers, not quite, but it is so close.

He smiles as if he knows something.

He finishes the last few buttons, closing up her tight silk collar, and the moment is over. Ciel doesn't know what she expected to happen just then, but she can't help but feel disappointed that it didn't.

"How shall we fix your hair tonight, My Lady?" He asks, taking up her loose hair and brushing it over her shoulders. Back to their normal routine, Ciel relaxes.

"You may choose. Anything but angel wings; they don't suit me at all."

"No, My Lady, they most certainly do not."

She sits at the stool in front of her vanity and stops Sebastian as he reaches for an amethyst bottle of Jasmine perfume.

"Get the rosemary fragrance instead."

"An unusual selection for a Royal banquet." Sebastian raises an eyebrow, but goes hunting for the requested fragrance all the same.

"Ellis likes it," she says simply.

"Does he?" Sebastian returns with a more simple glass bottle and spritzes her with it. She takes in the scent with the shallow breaths she can manage, as Sebastian takes a comb to her hair.

"You love Ellis very much, don't you?"

"He's family." She says dismissively.

"He is your future husband."

"Not if you fulfill our contract in time."

"Why, My Lady, it sounds almost as if you don't_ want_ to get married."

They've had this conversation before and she knows he's simply feigning ignorance to be a nuisance. She could order him to stop being an ass, but then there would probably be only awkward silence, and between the two options, the silence seems more unbearable. She shifts the focus on him.

"If you are as efficient as you claim to be, I ought to have had my revenge years ago."

"Truly satisfying vengeance is a complex creature that takes many years to properly grow and let loose," He pauses after fixing a pin in her hair and sets his hands on her shoulders, "I am only being thorough in fulfilling your wish. I assure you, it pains me as much to abstain from completing our contract as I am sure it pains your Betrothed to restrain himself till the wedding night."

Ciel sneers at him.

"How _dare_ you?"

"Am I mistaken?"

"You absolutely are. I'm sure Ellis isn't even aware of... that sort of thing."

"So instead it is you who is afraid of your marital duties?"

"Sebastian, I swear, if you don't-"

"Or are you simply being kindhearted and considering his feelings? So he doesn't have to lose a wife?"

Ciel looks down at her tightly folded hands. Considering his feelings... perhaps. Ellis is a sweet boy, from a very noble family. If he should lose the one to whom he was betrothed from birth, he will have no trouble finding another eligible bride- one who deserves him and loves him and doesn't hurt him with the family vendetta she carries.

As for the rest of it, she barely wants to think about what would transpire if they should get to know each other as a husband and wife; if he should discover the secrets in her body, not the least of which would be the fact that she is not innocent. Any man would be unhappy with that discovery; some might even become upset, angry, demand an annulment.

Not Ellis. Even if she never told him why; even if she went through pains to assure that he should never discover where she disappeared to on her tenth birthday, or that her first blood was spilled on an altar in front of dozens of onlookers rather than in the sanctity of their marital bed, somehow he would just know. He would just know that something terrible, painful, disgraceful had happened to her, and he would look at her with pity.

She can't stand the thought. She could handle the anger of any other person, but the thought of watching Ellis' heart break for her... the thought of him feeling sorry for her... she'll never let it happen. Her pride couldn't take it.

"I'm not kind," she says, "If I were kind, I might return to a normal life, try to leave the past behind me for his sake. I would marry into the Middlefords and forgive those who disgraced my family's name. After all, revenge for the dead is meaningless."

"Meaningless?"

"It is entirely meaningless. The dead don't care who avenges them. Our contract is only for my own satisfaction. You above all others should know how selfish I really am."

Sebastian returns to her hair, sliding a pearl studded comb into the intricate nest of curls.

"Just like a spoiled rich child."

In the mirror, with her hair all swept up, Ciel looks like her mother. She's heard people say that about her for years, but only now does she actually begin to see it. The gown fits perfectly, painfully fashionable silhouette and all, her hair is styled in a simple chignon, she smells just like the rosemary sprigs that Ellis used to pick ugly bouquets of, and standing behind her, Sebastian-

_Oh God, he looks like her father._

She doesn't even want to think about what it means that she even considered that.

They look almost exactly like Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive, dressed up for their wedding portrait: The noble Vincent and his lovely wife Rachel. The charming Earl of Phantomhive and beautiful Countess. It was always beautiful words for her mother. Vincent's many post-mortem eulogies included 'handsome' only among a sea of superlatives for his wit and intellect and loyalty to the crown, but if the peoples' words were to be believed, Rachel had been merely pretty, and that was all she had ever been.

Men had probably looked at her the same way they look at Ciel now.

"Sebastian," She says, with an inordinate gravity to her words for all the romance-novel banality they hold, "Do you think I'm pretty?"

"My kind has a very different understanding of beauty from yours," he responds as he kneels before her and gently slips her dance shoes on her feet, "But I am certain that from the perspective of any reasonable human, you are as lovely a specimen as any."

Ciel frowns.

"That isn't what I asked," she says, "Tell me your honest opinion, and that's an order. Do you think I'm pretty?"

She realizes, as they lock eyes, that Sebastian is holding her ankle, though both her shoes are already on. He smiles softly. That same 'innocent' smile that she never believes.

"No." He says.

He releases her ankle and she's inexplicably disappointed again. She stands up and takes the lace gloves and folding fan he has chosen for her, and walks toward the door, pausing a moment.

"Sebastian," She says, this time more casually as she looks over her shoulder and slips her gloves on, "Do I make you hungry?"

She swears she sees his tongue dart along his lips as he smiles.

"Yes, My Lady."

"Hm," is all she says.

"Young Mistress, aren't you forgetting something?" he says, and she blinks for a moment, then nods.

"Right." She says, "Bring me the pink satin one."

She doesn't need to explain that it's because that one was a gift from Ellis. He retrieves the inappropriately cute eye patch from a box on the vanity and with well practiced finesse, ties it over her right eye, hiding away the evidence of their true relationship.

"I've always wondered..." she says, as he brushes her fringe over the pink fabric as to not draw too much attention to it, "Where in the human body does the soul reside?"

Sebastian brushes her cheek with his gloved fingers, in what could never be taken as a mere slip of the hand, and gives her that look that she has no real words for.

"_Right between the eyes_."


End file.
